Under Cover
by Tom's Mum
Summary: Richard and Camille have an unusual assignment.
1. Assignment

_This takes place some time between the end of Series 1 and the beginning of Series 2. Note: the island of Santiago is entirely fictional._

* * *

"No, Dwayne, you can't build a house on Fenchurch Street Station!" Richard Poole sighed in exasperation. It was a blisteringly hot, sultry and irredeemably dull afternoon and he had spent the past two hours trying to teach his team to play Monopoly. It really wasn't _that_ complicated – he had mastered the rules by the time he was seven after all - but somehow Dwayne, Fidel and Camille appeared to find it baffling. Dwayne, he was sure, wasn't even trying. He was lounging back in his chair, taking long swigs from his bottle of beer. Fidel was doing his best of course but simply lacked aptitude. And as for Camille, she was clearly bored: she had been alternately wriggling impatiently in her chair and pacing up and down the veranda in frustration.

"It's so slow – we've been playing for hours and no-one is winning! Can't we stop now? See, I have landed on Mary Le Bone Station, should I buy it?" She enunciated the name carefully.

"It's Marley Bone, Camille, not Mary Le Bone."

"How can it be Marley Bone when it's clearly written as Mary Le Bone – it's obviously a French name!" She pouted provocatively.

"Well I can assure you Marley Bone is how it is pronounced. Now can we please get back to the game?"

"What a stupid language English is – nothing is ever pronounced as it is written!"

Richard was about to retort with some disparaging remarks of his own about the impossibility of the French language, when they were interrupted by a heavy tread on the stairs, and the urbane face of Selwyn Patterson peered round the door.

"Ah. Good afternoon, team. I see you are hard at it as usual."

They sprang to their feet like guilty children.

"Yes, Sir, well, er, it's extremely quiet – which is good of course because no-one is committing any crimes – and, um, well I thought that as we had caught up with everything we should spend a little time, um, you know, team building." For the hundredth time, Richard cursed himself for appearing so flustered and inept. The Commissioner always had that effect on him; he suspected that Selwyn Patterson was well aware of it and deeply enjoyed the discomfort which he inflicted.

"Quite so, Inspector. He surveyed the scene with a benign smile. "May I have a word with you and Sergeant Bordey, please?"

"Certainly, Sir", and he indicated to Dwayne and Fidel that they should withdraw. The three of them sat back down at the Monopoly table.

_What now? _ he thought. He ran his mind rapidly back over the past week's work: nothing extraordinary there, nothing to merit any kind of reprimand – just a few small local crimes cleared up. He glanced across at Camille, who shrugged imperceptibly. So she didn't know what this was about, either. But the Commissioner always arrived with an agenda – not usually a welcome one – and he braced himself for whatever was to follow.

"What do you know of the island of Santiago?"

Richard was astonished. What sort of opening was this? "Well, er, not very much, Sir" he admitted. "I believe it's about 30 miles or so off the coast of Jamaica?"

"Yes, that's right. It was originally Spanish - hence the name – but British for hundreds of years. It has been rather slow to develop – it relied on its fishing industry for years - but the tourists are now coming and the resorts are growing. An island ripe for exploitation. And that's what we rather think is happening."

The Commissioner paused, and Richard wondered what on earth a remote island on the other side of the Caribbean had to do with him. The puzzlement must have been written on his face, for Patterson continued.

"Yes, I am sure you and Sergeant Bordey are wondering why I am telling you this. A few days ago I had a phone call from the Commissioner of the JCF. That's the Jamaica Constabulary Force, Inspector. They look after the policing of Santiago. The JCF believe that the island is being used as the hub of a sex trafficking and money laundering ring and they think it is being run by a group of Chinese who have been staying on the island for some time. They want someone to go in under cover and try to find out if their suspicions are correct, and they have asked for you, Inspector, because of your Chinese language skills."

Richard nearly fell off his chair in shock. "Me? But I've never done any undercover work!"

"I am well aware of that, and that is why I have only agreed on the condition that you are accompanied by an officer who is experienced in undercover work– Sergeant Bordey."

"But …" Camille could hardly get the words out. "I mean, do you think Inspector Poole is, er, entirely suited to undercover work, Sir? It's very different from what he does here on Saint-Marie." _That was putting it mildly, _she thought.

"That remains to be seen, Sergeant, but I am sure you will do your best to prepare and guide him."

She fell back, speechless for once. At any other time Richard would have been amused by the unmistakeable look of horror on her face, but not today. He desperately cast around for something, _anything_, that would spare him this unlooked-for fate.

"But how can both Sergeant Bordey and I be away from the station at the same time, Sir? If anything serious should happen – a murder, for instance – Sergeant Best is not experienced enough to cope. Perhaps Sergeant Bordey could undertake the assignment on her own?"

The Commissioner turned to Camille. "Seargent Bordey, do you speak Chinese? Could you eavesdrop on a conversation or read documents written in Chinese?" She shook her head mutely. "You see, Inspector, Sergeant Bordey could not manage without you. And I have already made your point to the Commissioner in Jamaica, who has kindly agreed to lend us one of his senior officers while the two of you are away."

Richard felt himself being swept away by an irresistible current. He clung on by his fingertips. "But these Chinese, Sir, they could speak any one of a number of Chinese languages. If they come from Shanghai, for example, they will speak Wu, and I only know Mandarin, and I haven't spoken that for more than 20 years! I really don't think I will be much use." He tried not to plead but knew he was perilously close.

"Calm yourself, Inspector, I have it on the best of authority that the Chinese on Santiago are from Beijing and will therefore presumably speak Mandarin, so there should be no problem. And you do appear to be the only officer in the Caribbean with a knowledge of Chinese - I would not otherwise have agreed to the assignment."

Richard saw his last hope evaporate. He slumped glumly in his chair. Camille was still looking too shocked for sensible conversation. The Commissioner's tone was bracing.

"Come now, Inspector, look upon it as a good chance to widen your experience. You have done good work here on Saint-Marie and now we have an opportunity for the island to really punch above its weight. I am sure you realise how very important this could be to our future role in the policing of the Caribbean. I am relying on you both not to let me and the island down!"

He got up to leave. "You will be leaving in a fortnight. I will have all the details of your undercover roles drawn up and sent to you. By the way, you will be posing as a British businessman on holiday with his French wife." Ignoring the gasps of dismay from both Richard and Camille, he continued urbanely. "I understand that the climate is a little less oppressive at this time of year on Santiago, so you may welcome the change of scene. I wish you an enjoyable and successful trip."

The Commissioner picked up his hat and paused on the way out. "And by the way, Sergeant, I should buy Marylebone Station if I were you – it should be a good investment."


	2. Shopping

"I think I need another drink, maman!" Camille slumped at the table, resting her head on her arms, the picture of despondency.

"What is it, chérie?" Catherine set the glass down and slipped into the chair opposite her daughter. "I haven't seen you look this fed up for ages – not since Richard first arrived on the island. Has that man been upsetting you again?"

"No, not really, it's not his fault – he's as fed up as I am, actually." Catherine leaned forward expectantly, waiting for Camille to explain.

"I'm not supposed to talk about it, maman, but I have to tell someone or I'll just burst." She dropped her voice, so as not to be overheard. "The Commissioner is sending me on an undercover mission."

"But that's wonderful, chérie, isn't it? You know you love doing that sort of work, and you're really good at it." Catherine looked puzzled.

"Yes, but you don't know the whole. He's sending Richard as well. Richard! Working undercover! Was there ever a more stupid idea?" And she banged her head on the table in sheer frustration. "You know what he's like, maman, he's not exactly the most inconspicuous person, is he? I can't tell you the details of the assignment, but I'm sure with Richard involved our cover will be blown before the day is out. And then it will all be _my_ fault, as I'm supposed to be looking after him and watching his back. I just can't believe it. It's like a bad dream!"

"But why would they choose Richard in the first place? Surely the Commissioner knows what he's like? He's so tactless and rude sometimes, the last thing you need when you're under cover, I'd have thought."

"I can't tell you, maman, but they have their reasons. And there's worse: in the roles they have dreamed up for us we have to pretend to be man and wife, on holiday in the Caribbean! Stop laughing, maman, it's really not funny. I have to pretend to be married to someone whose idea of romance is a night in with a cup of cocoa watching the Antiques Road Show in his pyjamas! And can you imagine him trying to pretend he's my husband? He would practically pass out if he had to put his arm round me! He's so ill at ease with women – and that includes me!"

"Well, you'll just have to get him to practise before you leave. You never know, it might be quite fun!" A sly smile spread across Catherine's face. Camille was unmoved.

"And then there's the way he dresses. What man – English or otherwise – goes on holiday to the Caribbean in a suit? I shall have to take him shopping and buy him some proper clothes, and I know he won't like it. He'll moan and complain, nothing will be right, nothing will be as good as in England. It's going to be awful, I just know it. I'm really dreading it. In fact, I can think of few things I want to do less than go under cover with Richard Poole!"

"Well, he doesn't seem too happy about it either. Look!" Camille turned her head quickly and saw Richard about to enter the bar.

"Don't let on that I've said anything" she hissed in a fierce whisper, "he'll be furious if he finds out I've told you."

Richard was in a truly foul mood. It wasn't enough that fate – in the unlikely person of Commissioner Patterson – had condemned him to remaining on this godforsaken island in the middle of nowhere. Oh no. Now, just as he was starting to find his feet (even, dare one whisper, getting used to it) he was being sent to yet another so-called tropical paradise. Familiarity and order were the keys to a happy life, in Richard's eyes; he liked to feel safe and comfortable in places he really knew. That was why he had spent so many years in Croydon. A journey into the unknown was more likely to bring on an anxiety attack than set his pulses racing with excitement.

And as if this wasn't enough he had been landed with Camille, to boot. Not that he had anything (much) against Camille, apart from the fact that she was French and prone to irrational and emotional outbursts – in fact, he really liked her quite a lot of the time, and she was certainly good at her job, even if her methods were somewhat unorthodox for his somewhat austere taste. No, the problem was this undercover business. Richard Poole was not a great self-deceiver: he was perfectly well aware of his social inadequacies, even if he had no great idea of how to remedy them – or indeed any great wish to. But he had known from the outset that he would be no good at undercover work; it just wasn't his thing and he was sure to mess it up. The one thing he desperately wanted to avoid was making a fool of himself in front of Camille, and the more he thought about it the more likely that particular outcome seemed. So he went in search of a consolatory drink and his feet automatically took him in the direction of La Kaz - where the first person he saw was Camille herself. _Bad choice, Poole_, he thought savagely.

"Oh" he said. "I didn't realise you were here. I'll go." He had a face like a thundercloud.

"It's my mother's bar, I'm often here. But that doesn't mean you can't be here too. You look as if you need a drink about as much as I do, so why don't you sit down and maman will bring us both something bracing. Unless you would prefer tea?"

"No, I don't think this is really a tea moment. Something stronger is definitely called for."

They sat in silence, sipping their drinks. Richard studied the pattern of the table top intently. Camille examined her shoes in minute detail. Eventually she looked up.

"There's no way out of it, is there?"

"Nope, not that I can see. Unless I get on the next plane back to London. We've been well and truly hung out to dry." The note of bitterness was unmistakeable.

"Then we just have to make the best of it." He made an impatient gesture and kicked the table leg moodily.

"It's no good being like that. If you think I'm excited about spending a couple of weeks in your company trying to steer you away from blowing our cover, you're very much mistaken. I'm as unhappy about this as you are. Frankly, I can't think of a more unsuitable person for undercover work than you. But the Commissioner has made it clear that he expects us to get on with it and to be successful – and acting like a petulant schoolboy isn't going to help!"

He huffed. "May I remind you, Detective, that you are speaking to a senior officer. A little more respect would be in order." He pursed his mouth and looked so self-righteous that she wanted to hit him.

"I give respect when I think it is deserved. You have a brilliant mind, and I respect that. You usually mean well, and I respect that too. But you can't expect me to respect you when you behave in such a ridiculous manner."

He looked at her in burning resentment and she wondered if she had perhaps gone a bit too far. She was never slow in pointing out his faults - and to be fair he usually allowed her a fair degree of licence - but occasionally she knew she had overstepped the mark. She didn't dislike him exactly, it was just that his manner could be so irritating and annoying that it made her want to scream or, preferably, wring his neck like the hens which wandered in and out of his shack so freely. She sighed in resignation.

"OK I'm sorry. But the only chance we have of succeeding in this assignment is if we work together as a team. You do the snooping around the Chinese and I'll try to ensure that we maintain our cover. But first of all we need to do some shopping."

"Shopping?"

"Yes. The first rule of undercover work is to blend in to your background. So the suits are out – we have to get you a new wardrobe."

"Why can't I wear a suit?"

"Oh, Richard. You're supposed to be _on holiday_! In a suit and tie you'll stick out like a sore finger."

" A sore thumb. Stick out like a sore thumb. It's a thumb, not a finger", he explained patiently.

She ground her teeth. "Do you _have_ to be so pedantic? What does it matter, you know what I mean! I don't need an English lesson. And anyway, how good is your French?"

That was unanswerable.

"OK then, we'll catch the ferry over to Guadeloupe tomorrow morning. Bring your credit card."

As they were leaving the bar, Catherine called out to her daughter with a knowing smile.

"If you're going shopping, Camille, I think you'd better buy yourself a nightdress!"

* * *

They caught the morning ferry. Camille loved visiting Guadeloupe. It was so very French that she always felt immediately at home. The cafes, the shops, the road signs, the currency: everything exuded that magical Gallic quality which was only intermittently to be found on Saint-Marie. She loved the ferry journey too: the tang of the salty air, the seabirds screaming and wheeling around the boat, the breeze ruffling through her hair. She breathed deeply as they disembarked at Pointe-a-Pitre, inhaling the unmistakeable aroma of the boulangeries with their daily bake of baguettes, croissants and patisseries. Resisting all requests for a cup of tea, she propelled Richard firmly in the direction of the shops.

"There's a shopping mall in the ferry terminal. We'll start there, and then make our way to the markets and then to the main street. You can't have your tea until we've bought something."

She set of purposefully for the shopping mall, Richard trailing miserably behind her. He didn't like shopping at the best of times and this was most definitely _not_ the best of times. He just knew Camille was going to bully him into buying the sort of clothes he'd never wear again in a month of Sundays. He sighed and looked around. Of course he had been to Guadeloupe a number of times before, but only on official business, visiting various government offices or the forensics lab. This was different. He didn't normally shop on Guadeloupe, despite the fact that it offered far more scope than Saint-Marie. In fact he avoided coming to the island if he possibly could. It was so very _French_. He found the Frenchness of everything alien and disorientating – added to which, he couldn't understand a word that anyone said. And he had learned from bitter experience that by no means everyone spoke English. He caught himself staring at a window display of decidedly French lacy underwear, and longed desperately for the safety and familiarity of Marks & Spencer and the Whitgift Centre in Croydon.

"Come along, Richard, you can't spend all day looking at frilly knickers!" Camille called impatiently. "There's a menswear shop in the mall." His cheeks turned scarlet and he scurried after her, making a mental note never to be seen in this vicinity again. Was a tiny part of him wondering what his Detective Sergeant would look like in such exotic lingerie? Well if it was, the thought was very quickly squashed as he followed her obediently into the shop.

"We need to get you some light trousers, chinos perhaps. What size are you?"

"34"

"34? What kind of size is that?"

"It's my waist – 34 inches."

"Well that's no good. The sizes here are all European!"

"In the middle of the Caribbean? Why? It would make more sense if they were American!"

"Look, Richard, I know you don't like it, but Guadeloupe is part of France and therefore part of the EU. It's a département d'outre-mer – an overseas department. That's why we use the euro. I know it seems strange, but that's how it is. And being a part of the EU, it uses European sizes. So let me measure you!"

She grabbed a tape measure from the counter and before he could protest had undone his jacket and slid her arms round his waist, pulling the tape tight.

"Hm, that's about 80 centimetres, so I would think probably a size 50." She conferred with the assistant and they reached an agreement. "Yes, we think a size 50 would be about right. Now what about inside leg length?" And she advanced on him purposefully once more with the tape measure.

He looked at her with dawning misgiving. "No!" he said firmly, removing the tape measure from her grasp. "I think we'll let the assistant do it – he's probably much more experienced."

She shrugged and wandered round the shop, flicking through the rails of clothes. She picked out several pairs of trousers. "Try these on."

"Must I? Can't I just try them on when I get home?" He felt embarrassed, he really didn't want to have to strip off in front of Camille. But she was having none of it.

"No you can't. What if they don't fit? Just go into the changing room and get undressed – or I'll come and do it for you, like the good wife I am about to become!"

Looking at her face he knew she meant every word. He went quietly.

For the next thirty minutes he paraded in and out of the changing room in a variety of outfits for Camille's inspection. _I might as well be a bloody male model_, he thought. After the sixth change he protested.

"Can't you just choose one, Camille?"

"Well, which one do you like best?"

"I don't like any of them, they're too informal for me, make me feel uncomfortable. So just choose one. _Please._"

"OK we'll have the beige pair. And now for some shorts."

"_I am not wearing shorts!_" He nearly bellowed; several customers looked round in consternation.

Her tone was steely. "Of course you are. All men – even English ones – on a beach holiday wear shorts. What exactly is the problem? Do you have bandy legs? Or knobbly knees, perhaps?"

"No, I don't" he replied hotly. "Well, not particularly. But I'll look like an idiot in shorts."

"You won't look any worse than the thousands of other middle-aged men who invade our beaches every year."

He winced inwardly at being described, albeit implicitly, as middle aged. But then he was a good few years older than Camille, and he supposed that from her standpoint he must indeed seem middle-aged. It was a sobering thought.

"You can wear knee-length shorts and they don't have to be brightly coloured. Here, try these on."

He foresaw another extended session of dressing and undressing looming. Gloomily he trudged back into the changing room, emerging a few minutes later extremely self-consciously in the hated shorts, only too aware of the paleness of his legs. Perhaps, he thought, if I say I like them she won't make me try any more on.

"These feel good", he tried.

"Mm, yes, not bad. Turn round. Yes, I think they will do. OK, you can go and get dressed. We'll go to the market for the rest."

He fled thankfully for the safety of the changing room. Her voice followed him, slightly mocking. "And by the way there's nothing wrong with your legs."


	3. Preparations

The rest of the morning passed without serious incident. They bought several casual short sleeved shirts and T shirts in the market, and Richard was relieved to find that he was not expected to strip off in front of half the population of Guadeloupe to try them on. Once Camille had patiently pointed out that his stated collar size of 15½ was not very helpful for this type of purchase, she contented herself with holding them up against him to gauge the fit. Richard felt quite ridiculously triumphant at having managed to steer her away from some of the gaudier, Hawaiian-type shirts ("I'm not Nelson Mandela!") and they settled for some really quite innocuous purchases. A pair of light shoes and some sandals were also negotiated without major disagreement, and it was therefore in a mood of comparative harmony that they sat down to their late morning coffee (or tea, in Richard's case).

He prodded moodily at the croissant which Camille had ordered for him, complaining that it didn't really go with tea.

"You want something sweeter? Very well." And she beckoned the waiter over.

"Un palmier pour monsieur, s'il vous plaît."

"What have you ordered?" he asked suspiciously.

"You'll like it. It's just sugary pastry in the shape of a palm leaf. The perfect accompaniment to a cup of tea."

He very much doubted that anything French could be accurately described as perfect, and thought it extremely unlikely that the palmier would outperform the chocolate digestive biscuit that he really longed for. But when he tried it he was forced to admit to himself that it actually was delicious – the sweet pastry just melted in his mouth.

"Not bad", he allowed grudgingly.

She laughed. "High praise indeed! I'll have you know that the French make the best pastries in the world. This is one area where England just can't compete!"

He bridled at the implied insult and tried desperately to think of some comparable English delicacy to challenge her confident assertion. Visions of dry cupcakes topped with icing made from margarine and scones as solid as stones floated before his eyes and were instantly dismissed.

"Yes, but we have other strengths. We make fantastic hot puddings for example. I mean, where in France could you get a jam roly poly or a spotted dick?"

"A what?"

"A spotted dick – it's a steamed sponge with dried fruit served with lots of custard. Traditional English pudding. Very good for traditional English weather. I'm not surprised you don't have it in the Caribbean!"

"But isn't Dick short for Richard? You have a pudding named after you! Or perhaps you had spots when you were born and you parents named you after the pudding!" She giggled helplessly at the thought.

"_I was not named after a pudding!_ Don't be ridiculous, Camille!" Conscious that the conversation was getting extremely silly, he got up to leave. "If we've finished our shopping, let's get the early ferry back to Saint-Marie."

"Yes, I think we've got everything – oh, we've forgotten the swimming gear."

"I'm not going swimming, so I don't need anything." He spoke defiantly but sensed an argument brewing.

"Listen, Richard, you're supposed to be someone who has chosen to come to a beach resort for a holiday. How will it look if you never go near the water? Of course you have to have some swimwear." She eyed his figure slightly dubiously. "I would suggest we don't go for the briefs or for speedos, but a pair of long shorts will look fine. There's bound to be a stall in the market. Come on."

Fifteen minutes later Richard was the less-than-proud possessor of a pair of navy blue swimming shorts, and they were heading back to the harbour.

* * *

Camille dropped him back at the shack and he staggered in laden with carrier bags which he dumped unceremoniously on the floor before grabbing a beer from the fridge and collapsing into his favourite chair. It had been a long and stressful day. If this was what going under cover meant, he had had enough of it before he had even started. Reflecting morosely on the day's activities, he realised that he had lost virtually every argument with Camille; the evidence was lying around him on the floor. He nudged the bags gloomily with his foot. He was in mourning for his suits.

Eventually he forced himself to unpack his purchases and he laid them out on the bed. He had never owned such casual clothes before – at least not since he was a child. Even at home when relaxing he would never wear shorts or T-shirts – apart from anything else, the weather in London was rarely warm enough, and he never took seaside holidays. He gingerly picked them up. _Well_, he thought, _I suppose I had better get used to wearing them – at least around the house. _He had no intention of being seen outdoors in clothing so inappropriate to the dignity of a Detective Inspector lately of the Metropolitan Police.

He reluctantly put on the shorts and a T-shirt and stood looking at his reflection in the mirror. A stranger stared back at him – a stranger who had his face but whose body looked very odd indeed. Odd, and very uncomfortable. A voice behind him spoke.

"Mmm, you look almost normal!"

He spun round, hugely embarrassed at being caught in front of the mirror. Camille was standing in the doorway, an amused smile playing on her lips.

"But you do look pretty miserable. We'll have to work on that!" She waved an envelope at him. "Look! I popped into the station on the way home and the first details of our new identities have arrived. I thought we could study them overnight and then get together tomorrow to flesh out the details."

She tossed the envelope onto the table, gave a little wave and disappeared.

* * *

"So" said Camille, perching on the arm of his chair and leaning over his shoulder to read the briefing notes, "we're Richard and Camille Carmichael from South London, spending a fortnight on Santiago while our children are staying with my family in Paris. You're a science teacher in a school – that shouldn't be too difficult for you – and I was a social worker in Paris before we got married and I moved to England."

Richard shifted uneasily in his chair, trying to inch as far away from her as possible. She was very close – her bottom was almost in his ribs and her hand was resting lightly on his shoulder. He tried hard to concentrate on what she was saying but her physical nearness was so very disconcerting.

"Don't wriggle", she admonished, "I'm your wife and you just have to get used to some physical contact."

"Yes, er, sorry" he mumbled. "Not … you know … um … used to it."

"Well, we have at least another week in which to practise, so you have plenty of time to get used to it." Richard gulped. It had not escaped his notice that his Detective Sergeant was an extremely attractive woman. In fact he had decided that she was the most attractive police officer he had ever met.

Reading people's emotions was one of Camille's strengths, and it didn't take much to realise that this man was seriously ill at ease. She sighed inwardly – it was going to be a tough assignment. She needed to find something safe and unthreatening to begin with – something that he was comfortable with.

"OK, so we're supposed to live in South London. Let's use your house in Croydon. Find it on Google Earth and show me round the area."

He fetched his laptop and soon they were staring at the street which until his involuntary removal to the Caribbean he had called home. Camille saw a quiet road of small terraced houses which Richard told her were late Victorian. They navigated around the area and he showed her the local shops and then the main shopping centre, with the mall, the market and the high street. They peered at East and West Croydon stations, the tramway and then the Fairfield Halls, Richard describing and explaining all the time. At the end he fell silent.

"You still miss it all, don't you?"

He nodded mutely, not trusting himself yet to speak.

"It's natural to be homesick, Richard, you don't have to be embarrassed. I know when I was studying in Paris I missed the island terribly."

"Yes, but at least you knew you were going back. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever see home again. The Commissioner will conspire to keep me here forever, like a princess locked in a tower. Not that I think I'm a princess … you know … oh god that didn't come out quite right."

She laughed. "Never mind. Well, perhaps a knight in shining armour will come along one day to rescue you! But in the meantime you should be flattered that the Commissioner goes to such lengths to keep you here. He obviously thinks very highly of you."

"It's just his crime clear-up rate that he thinks highly of, I fear." He sighed deeply, then gave himself a mental shake. "Anyway, where were we?"

"Well, I need to spend some more time getting to know my way around Croydon but I can do that on my own now. Let's talk about our family."

"Family?"

"Yes, it says here we have children. Well, I have a friend who is married to a French national and I've brought along some photos of their children – they are the same racial mix as us, so they are more or less what any children of ours would look like."

She fished in her bag and pulled out some photos of a girl aged about 10 and a boy of 8. She passed them to Richard.

"The girl is called Amélie and the boy is Louis."

The very thought of him and Camille having children made Richard feel very peculiar indeed. He stared intently at the photos. In every one the children were laughing and smiling – quite unlike his own childhood snaps. He had been a solemn and unphotogenic little boy. He was conscious of a faint pang and wondered briefly what it would be like to actually _be_ the father of these happy children.

Camille chattered on, filling in the details of the two children, describing their personalities, their likes and dislikes, their progress at school. He got out his notebook and made a meticulous record of all the salient details which he would later commit to memory.

"Now" she continued, "what about us? Where did we meet? When and where did you propose? When is our wedding anniversary and how did we celebrate the last one? Where did we spend our last holiday? What are our hobbies and interests? What did you buy me for my last birthday?"

"Stop, stop!" He put his hands over his ears.

"We have to agree on these things, Richard – it's the details that make the cover convincing when you're talking to people." She relented a little; he was holding his head in his hands and she could see he was seriously stressed.

"Perhaps we've done enough for one day", she said sympathetically. "I know it's a lot for you to take in. Come for a walk along the beach with me and relax."

He found it hard to relax in her company, but he could hardly tell her that, so he rose obediently and made for the door.

"Why don't you try out your shorts and one of your shirts? It's getting dark, so there won't be anyone around to see you." He was going to refuse but couldn't face the argument that he was sure would follow and she was looking at him in such an encouraging manner that he decided it would be simpler just to agree. _Fortune favours the brave_, he thought, as he trudged off to change.

When he emerged it was to find that she had removed her shoes. She indicated that he should do the same. He protested weakly about stepping on a sharp stone or getting sand between his toes but she just rolled her eyes so he gave in. _I seem to be giving in a lot these days_, he thought.

The wandered along the beach just above the waterline, where the receding tide had left the sand damp and firm. He felt extremely self-conscious in his informal attire and darted continual glances around to make sure that no-one was watching, but he had to admit that the sensation of the warm, damp sand was actually very pleasant, even if it meant he would have to spend ages afterwards cleaning every grain from his feet. And it _was _relaxing just being in Camille's company when she was not haranguing him about something. He sneaked a quick look at her and qualifed his earlier judgment. Without doubt she was the most attractive woman he had ever met _full stop. _The prospect of spending the next couple of weeks pretending to be her husband made him shiver, but whether this was from fear or from anticipation he was not quite sure.

Lost in this internal debate, he jumped when Camille slipped her hand into his. It was after all how real couples behaved. She turned her head to smile at him and gave his hand an encouraging little squeeze. When his heart rate had settled to something approaching normal he came to the somewhat surprising conclusion that he rather liked it. The balance tilted slightly from fear to anticipation.

They returned to the shack. "I think you should try putting your arm round me now" she suggested. He tried his best. He placed his right arm nervously round her shoulders and stood stiffly next to her.

"Sorry, um, a bit awkward …"

"Yes, well, I think that needs a little more practice. I don't know why women make you so nervous, Richard, but you have simply got to learn to relax around me, or people will never believe we are married."

What to do? She thought for a while, staring pensively out to sea. Then an idea came to her. It might not work, but it was worth a try. "I know, what we need is a pretend date!"


	4. Dancing

This is an improbable chapter but then the whole story is pretty silly, so hey!

* * *

"I need to find somewhere to take Richard for a date, maman. Somewhere where no-one will know us and he can relax."

"You're going on a date with _Richard_? Mon Dieu, chérie, I didn't realise things had moved on so quickly with you!"

"No, no, maman, it's just a _pretend_ date. Richard's OK – I quite like him most of the time, except when he's being pompous … or pedantic … or grumpy … or just plain annoying! But he's certainly not my type and probably the last person I'd ever go on a real date with. You know, the other day when we were practising for our undercover roles I asked him to put his arm round me and it was the most awkward thing you've ever seen! I need him to relax a bit around me – well, you know what he's like."

Catherine nodded sagely. "Il a avalé son parapluie", she opined.

"Exactly! And I need to loosen him up. So I thought if we went on a pretend date we could get to know each other a bit better and he could get used to being close to me. But he's going to be so self-conscious that it really needs to be somewhere where we will not be recognised."

"Well, not on the island, then. Everyone here knows the Englishman in the suit! Take him to Guadeloupe – maybe one of the hotels in Sainte-Anne? It's far enough away from the main towns to make it extremely unlikely that you will see anyone you know. What about the Beau Rivage? That's quite a sedate place – should suit Richard well. And I think they do dinner dances on Saturday nights in the season – not that he will dance, but the atmosphere should be suitable."

"Maman, you're brilliant! That's it, I'll get him to dance with me. If that doesn't get him over the physical contact bit, then I give up!"

"But I thought he couldn't dance, the last time you asked him?"

"Then I'll just have to teach him, won't I?"

* * *

The following day after work she descended on the shack armed with various CDs and a pair of high heeled shoes. Richard eyed her with misgiving. He had been sitting at the table writing and hurriedly moved to tidy up the papers.

"What are you doing? Oh, you're writing postcards! But I thought you didn't have any friends back in the UK … Hey, you're writing postcards in Chinese! Wow!"

"Just practising my Mandarin a bit" he mumbled, gesturing at the China Daily newspaper which was also lying on the table.

"But who are these children?" she asked, picking up a series of photographs of young, rather serious-looking Chinese. He shrugged and seemed unwilling to reply, and suddenly she felt that she was intruding into something private.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

"No, it's OK, it's just that they're … well … um … they're the children that I sponsor. Well, the Chinese ones. I mean, there are a couple of others in Africa."

"You sponsor all these children? That's amazing."

"Oh, thousands of people do it. It's nothing really. Just a bit of money, not that much. And … and they write to you and tell you about their lives and … um … you write back, that's all. I send them postcards of Saint-Marie – it's good for my Mandarin. That's why I chose children in, you know, China."

"I had no idea. That's very sweet of you – so how many children do you have?"

"Well, um, at the moment there's four in China and another two in Africa. But they grow up eventually and then you get sent other ones to sponsor. Over the years I've had about twenty or so."

"Twenty! That must have cost you an awful lot of money."

He shrugged diffidently. "Well, I'm well paid and I don't need much. It's not as if I'm, you know, supporting a family. These children have so little, it just doesn't seem right."

"And you've never met any of them?"

"No."

Camille was frankly astonished and really rather impressed. Here was a man who to all appearances had no interest in anything beyond work: no friends, no personal relationships, just a green lizard. She knew he had firm moral principles and felt strongly about right and wrong – that was why catching people who broke the law was so important to him. But she hadn't realised there was also a social conscience beneath the rather cynical exterior. It was typical of Richard, she thought, to choose something which he could do in private without anyone knowing, and where real, human contact was replaced by safe, impersonal letters and postcards. A family at a convenient distance, a family which was never going to demand huge emotional commitment, a family entirely appropriate for a reserved, uptight Englishman. He went up a notch in her estimation, nevertheless.

But she had promised him a pretend date. She quickly outlined the planned visit to Guadeloupe, ending with "so you see, all you have to do is have a nice relaxed meal with me, and we'll pretend we are Mr and Mrs Carmichael from Croydon." He seemed to have accepted that, so she added quickly "and have a little dance."

The response was instant. "I told you, I don't dance."

"You don't dance because you don't know how to. This is proper dancing, Richard, with steps and rules to follow. You'll be all right if you know what you're supposed to be doing. I'll teach you a few basic steps, and if you follow the rules you'll be fine. You know you're good at rules."

He supposed so but looked decidedly apprehensive as she put on her high heels and got out her CDs.

"Do I really have to do this?"

"Yes, it will do you the world of good. As my mother says, you've swallowed your umbrella, you _must _relax a bit."

"I've _what?"_

"Swallowed your umbrella. Don't you have that expression in English? It means you're too uptight." He opened his mouth. "No, please don't tell me what the equivalent expression is in English – I really don't want to know! Let's get on." She flicked through her CDs, musing a little.

"Well, the easiest of all the social dances is the salsa." She looked doubtfully at him. "But I think it's a bit fast and bouncy for you." She danced a few steps and looked at him enquiringly. "What do you think? Perhaps a shoulder shimmy or two?" She demonstrated.

The trouble was, it wasn't just her shoulders that were shimmying. He realised with a jolt that he was staring at her open-mouthed. He tried to wrench his gaze away from the various parts of her body that were quivering, and felt the perspiration tricking down the back of his neck.

"Er, I think, you know, a bit too …"

"Mmm, yes, perhaps salsa isn't really your thing. What about a rumba? That's nice and slow and the basic steps are very simple – there are only three of them after all." She searched through her CDs. "Anything slow in 4/4 time will do."

"Why 4/4 time if there are only three steps?"

"You transfer your weight on the last beat. Watch!"

She counted as she danced. "Two, three, four, one"

"Why not one, two, three, four?"

"That's how we count the rumba. Look, just stop worrying about the details and copy what I'm doing. You go forward on your left leg, return, then to the side and transfer your weight. See, it's easy!"

She stood in front of him and after a few attempts he began to get the hang of it and to follow her moves correctly. It was, after all, not particularly taxing for a man of his considerable intellect, and he was just congratulating himself on his proficiency when she said:

"OK Richard, that's fine as far as it goes but it doesn't go very far. This is a latin dance, not the military two-step – your movements need to be fluid and sensual, you need to rotate your hips as you move. Watch me."

It would have been impossible not to watch her as she undulated hypnotically backwards and forwards. His eyes nearly popped out of his head. "I can't do that, it's indecent!" he yelped. "And … and … not English!"

"Nonsense! Put your hands on my hips and feel how they move" she ordered. He stood as if frozen to the spot. "Richard?" she snapped sharply.

"I er, I don't really think it's, you know, appropriate?"

"Rubbish, it's just a dance, not an offer of marriage. Here!" And she grabbed his hands and held them on her hips as she swayed sensually from one foot to the other.

"Now _you_ do it."

He did try, but the movement was completely alien to his nature. Where Camille was soft and sinuous he was stiff and rigid. Suddenly the position was reversed and _her_ hands were on _his_ hips, pushing them and forcing them to move. It was quite possibly the most mortifying experience of his life.

After what felt like hours of being pulled and pushed into the most unnatural way of moving it had ever been his misfortune to encounter, Camille declared herself more or less satisfied.

"Now" she continued, "we need to dance _together._ Hold my hand in your left hand and put your right hand on my waist. I'm going to do the same steps as you. OK let's rumba!"

Most of what he had learned deserted him once he had Camille in his arms. She was so very close that he found it impossible to concentrate. He stumbled and trod on her feet several times when he started off on the wrong leg and the first practice ended in total disarray.

"Sorry … er … not very … um … rather awkward."

"Never mind", she said briskly, "try again. It will get easier."

They did try again … and again, and gradually it did get easier. Richard still found the whole business of rolling his hips hugely embarrassing but he did manage not to tread on Camille's feet.

"Well, you're never going to be Patrick Swayze but I think we'll survive."

"Who?"

"Oh Richard, don't tell me you've never seen _Dirty Dancing?_"

"That sounds like something they sell under the counter in a plain brown wrapper! Not my sort of film at all, and I wouldn't have thought it was yours either."

She sighed. She had forgotten that in terms of popular culture he was illiterate.

"I've had the time of my life?"

"Well, tonight has been quite … er … stimulating, but I don't think I would quite go that far …"

"_No!" _Really, the man was an idiot at times. "It's the song they dance to at the end of the film. Oh never mind, one day we can watch the DVD together. You never know, you might get inspired – there's a great lift at the end of the dance!" He looked decidedly alarmed at the prospect, so she added kindly "Don't worry, I'll go on a diet." And then, looking at his face, "Richard, for goodness sake, it was a _joke_! Of course I don't expect you to lift me. Don't take everything so seriously!"

"Sorry, it's just that I'm never really sure … you know … when you're joking. Not much … um … experience on that front, I'm afraid."

She surprised herself by suddenly feeling sorry for him. She suspected he was well acquainted with bullying and mockery but clearly no-one had ever liked him enough to tease him and make jokes. It was sad, really. She was sure there was a decent man behind the high walls with which he had surrounded himself – the team had had odd glimpses from time to time – and she determined that whatever else this assignment might bring, she would try to coax him out from behind the ramparts. She thought she might even rather enjoy it.

Over the following couple of days they practised their steps a number of times until Camille decreed that they were ready for their date. Saturday evening saw them seated at a table at the Beau Rivage Hotel on Guadeloupe, a large but rather old-fashioned establishment which attracted a clientele of mostly middle-aged diners. Camille looked around, metaphorically rolling her eyes: she was glad her friends couldn't see her in such a staid and respectable place. But Richard seemed to be finding it relatively unthreatening, which gave her some hope for the evening.

His eyes had widened in admiration when she arrived to collect him.

"You look fantastic!"

"Thank you." She thought mentally that without the usual suit and tie he didn't look at all bad himself. Perhaps this 'date' wouldn't be quite as bad as she expected. After all, she had plenty of experience of disappointing blind dates, so she really ought to be able to cope with an evening in Richard's company.

"Look – I borrowed maman's ring." She held out her right hand.

"If you're supposed to be married to an Englishman, shouldn't you be wearing the ring on your left hand? No English woman would wear a wedding ring on her right hand."

She pouted. "But I'm French … Oh, OK I'll move it, if I can get it off – it's a bit tight."

She pulled at the ring but to no avail.

"Stop pulling so hard. You'll make your knuckle swell up and then you'll never get it off. Wait a minute!"

He disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a bottle of olive oil, and thoroughly greased her finger. With a little persuasion the ring slipped over her knuckle and she replaced it on the third finger of her left hand. She grimaced a little.

"I'll never get it off again. I shall end up being married to you forever!"

"I am duly appalled at the thought." _Which was a lie, he realised with a sudden jolt._

"Why do some countries wear rings on the right hand and others on the left?"

He pulled himself sharply together. "Um … er … I've really no idea. All I know is that centuries ago they used to believe that there was a vein that ran from the third finger to the heart, the 'vena amoris' or 'vein of love' and that's why they chose that finger for the wedding ring."

"How romantic! And fancy _you_ knowing that!"

He gave her a quelling look. "Shall we go?"

So here they were, waiting for their food.

"Well, Mr Carmichael" she began, "how are you enjoying the evening?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "It feels very strange to be here with you. Rather … um … inappropriate."

"That's because you still think you're Inspector Poole of the Saint-Marie Police and I'm your Sergeant. You're not – you're Richard Carmichael, enjoying a night out with your lovely wife! Didn't you ever do play-acting as a child?"

"No, I always played on my own. But I did once play Abraham Lincoln in the sixth form at school."

"Well, there you are then! You just need to sink yourself into the character. They must have thought you were capable of it to choose you."

"Not really. No-one else wanted to do it. It was a pretty dull play and they just needed someone who could be worthy and moral. It was a no-brainer for me."

"Well I'm sure you were very good in it."

"I _was_ quite good, actually. But the only thing anyone ever remembered was the assassination scene. You know, Lincoln was assassinated at the theatre. Well, the assassin ran up to me and fired but instead of going bang bang the gun just went click click. Everyone found it hilarious, it quite ruined my death scene."

She tried hard not to laugh. "Oh dear, poor Richard!" It was no good, she could not stop giggling. She looked at him apologetically. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh."

His mouth started to twitch. Suddenly he found himself smiling back at her shyly. "It's all right. Yes, it must have been quite funny if you weren't me."

She was amazed at how the smile transformed his face, it made him appear really not at all bad-looking. She thought back over the months of their acquaintance – she could barely ever remember him smiling. She had put it down to a lack of a sense of humour but saw now that it was probably just shyness.

"Richard, you should smile more. It really suits you."

He started to mumble something, but fortunately at that moment the food arrived to cover his embarrassment. All too soon the tables were cleared, the little band tuned up and it was time for dancing. They sat and watched as various couples shuffled their way around the floor: waltzing, quickstepping and foxtrotting. Richard was relieved to see that none of them were very good, and his rapidly ebbing confidence returned sufficiently for him to contemplate dancing with Camille without actually passing out. The rhythms changed, becoming more sinuous and syncopated. Camille jigged about in her chair as other couples danced sambas and salsas and even Richard was unable to refrain from surreptitiously tapping his feet.

"Listen, now they're playing a Beatles selection – that should make you feel at home."

He huffed. "Look, Camille." His tone was pained. "I know I'm older than you but I'm not _that_ old. I really don't remember the Beatles – I was only a toddler when they split up!"

She bit her lip in vexation. "Oh. Sorry." _Stupid, stupid, woman. Now you've upset him, made him feel old._

"Never mind, it's the rumba next. Come on, Mr Lincoln." She grabbed his hand and dragged him onto the dancefloor as the strains of 'And I love her' began to drift through the room.

Richard came out in a cold sweat. It was one thing dancing in the shack where the only audience was a green lizard; quite another to do it in public with the eyes of fellow diners boring into him. Fortunately a number of other couples joined them on the dancefloor. Sensing his rising panic, Camille squeezed his hand to encourage him and moved into hold.

"Just do it exactly as we practised. Don't worry, you'll be fine" she whispered. "And try to look at me – the rumba is supposed to be romantic!"

They began to move rhythmically to the music. It felt awkward at first, but once he realised that he wasn't going to fall over or tread on Camille's feet, he found he was easily able to reproduce what they had so painstakingly practised over and over again. Truth to tell, he was only doing very basic steps, every now and then letting go of Camille so she could turn underarm or dance round him. To the casual observer they might have looked like any other seasoned couple; it was fortunate that no-one was close enough to hear Camille murmuring softly "two-three-four-one-back-return-side-_hips, Richard!_"

The rhythm was hypnotic. He found no difficulty at all in looking at Camille. She danced with her whole body, and every part of her seemed to ripple harmoniously. Her movements were fluid and sensual and he was totally mesmerised.

"Don't freak out" she whispered, as she slid her arm round his waist and laid her head on his shoulder. He felt a shudder run through him but managed to continue dancing and even remembered to breathe now and then. Somehow it seemed the most natural thing in the world to rest his head against hers as they swayed gently forwards and backwards and from side to side. He was completely lost in the moment.

"You can let go now, Richard, the music has stopped."

He came crashing back to earth.

"Oh … er … yes … sorry." He led her back to their table.

"You did very well, I was proud of you. I think we made a good Mr and Mrs Carmichael."

Yes of course, it had all been acting. Of course it had. Now they faced the very real prospect of putting everything they had learned to the test. They were leaving for Santiago the following day.

They caught the last ferry back to Saint-Marie and Camille dropped him back at the shack. If she had looked back a few minutes after she drove off she would have observed a very strange phenomenon – a man in striped pajamas with a mug of tea in his hand humming an old Beatles song and dancing on the veranda in the moonlight.


	5. Arrival

Driving from the airport to the police headquarters in Jamaica, Richard experienced a major culture shock. He had thought he was accustomed to Caribbean life by now, but nothing had prepared him for the maelstrom that was Kingston. The noise, the traffic, the general chaos was totally unlike anything he had experienced on Saint-Marie. London was busy and noisy of course but somehow it was all more ordered and familiar. He supposed he had just got used to living in a small town, and had almost forgotten what it felt like to be in a large city pulsating with energy and life. His senses swam. He turned to Camille.

"Have you been here before?"

"Yes a few times. But I always forget how big and noisy it is. Never mind, we'll be off to Santiago in a few hours, once we've been briefed."

The car drew up outside the Jamaica Constabulary Force's headquarters building and the two officers were quickly ushered up to a large airy office on the fifth floor from which an excellent view could be obtained of the harbour. A rather grizzled man in his fifties stepped forward to greet them.

"Inspector, Sergeant – or should I perhaps say Mr and Mrs Carmichael – welcome to Kingston and the JCF. I'm Superintendent Barrington and I'm delighted to meet you. Please sit down."

Richard and Camille sat and listened as the Superintendent outlined their assignment. The gist of it was that the JCF suspected a criminal gang based on Santiago was trafficking women to work in the sex trade in Europe and the USA.

"The women are mostly from Haiti, which as I'm sure you know is one of the very poorest countries in the world. When they enter Jamaica they all have written offers of work in one of the hotels on Santiago. But once they get to the island they seem to disappear. They work in the hotel for a short time and then suddenly they're gone. The hotel manager says they leave to work in other hotels where they are better paid, but we haven't been able to trace any of them. We're sure the women have been trafficked and that he's in on it, but we can't prove anything."

"And what about the Chinese?"

"Ah yes, the Chinese. Well there are three of them. Here are their details. They have been staying in the hotel on and off for a couple of months and acting in a rather suspicious manner – hiring a boat and disappearing for days at a time. They are a bit of a mystery – Interpol don't have anything on them and on their passports they are listed as businessmen."

"And you suspect that they are behind the trafficking of the women?"

"Yes, although again we have no proof. That is where you come in. I understand that you are a Mandarin speaker, Inspector?"

"Well, up to a point. I can't say I've done much since school, and I'm pretty rusty."

"But proficient enough to listen to their conversations?"

"Yes, probably, if I can get close enough."

"Excellent. I understand that this is your first under cover assignment, but I have no doubt that Sergeant Bordey will have prepared you adequately and that you are both fully acquainted with your supposed identities."

Richard reflected on the long interrogation to which he and Camille had been subjected by Dwayne and Fidel before their departure, and readily assented. He felt there was little he did not know about the lives of Mr and Mrs Carmichael – in fact he had only failed on one question, which was Camille's favourite colour, and she had said that wasn't important as the majority of husbands would have been equally clueless.

He had to keep telling himself that he had left Richard Poole behind on Saint-Marie. His new passport, his new phone and his new credit cards all proclaimed him to be Richard Carmichael. Camille had insisted that they should load their phones up with 'family' pictures, so in addition to the ones of their 'children' he now had several of Camille and one of the two of them together – the best of several attempts to look 'happy'. He thought he might just keep the photos once the assignment was over.

"So do we have a contact on the island?" asked Camille.

"Yes, I have an officer currently working as a taxi driver but he is unable to penetrate the hotel and of course does not speak Chinese. However, you can use him if you need to get a message to me. His name is Otis and he will collect you when you disembark. As you know the island is in a state of development and they are still building the airport, so access at the moment is by ferry only."

Several hours later, as they emerged from the tiny customs hall in Port Edward, Santiago's small but rapidly expanding capital, they were met by a cheery-looking young man in his twenties carrying a placard with 'Carmichael – Taxi' on it.

"Otis?"

"That's me. I'm the taxi you pre-booked to take you to your hotel. Welcome to Santiago, Mr and Mrs Carmichael."

Once they were settled inside the taxi, Otis introduced himself. I'm Constable Trent, sir, and I've been asked to help you in this assignment. I've been on the island for a few weeks now, and in fact I've driven the Chinese gentlemen around a couple of times – they wanted to go right round the island. So if there's anywhere you need to go, just give me a ring."

"What do you make of the Chinese?"

"Difficult to say, sir. They don't exactly talk to me, except to tell me where to go, and the rest of the time they're yammering away in their own language. But one thing I will say: that hotel manager is up to no good. He's a real sleazeball."

"What's his name?"

"He goes by the name of Lemarr Gregson. We've run him through the computer and he comes out clean but I'd swear he has a murky past, so perhaps that's not his real name. Well, here we are."

The Ocean Pearl was a large modern hotel overlooking the bay. As soon as they walked through the revolving door from the inferno outside to the cool air-conditioned interior, Richard fell in love. He virtually purred with contentment and mentally vowed never to venture out of the hotel unless it was absolutely essential. They checked in and took the lift to their room, which was on the third floor. Camille immediately collapsed into the nearest chair – it had, after all, been a long and tiring day. Richard looked around in considerable consternation.

"This is a double room. We asked for a twin. We'll have to go back to Reception."

Camille was too tired to argue and her shoes were hurting. Wearily she picked up her bags and they trudged back to the lift. Richard strode up to the reception desk.

"I'm afraid there has been a mistake. My wife and I requested a twin room but you have given us a double."

The receptionist checked through the records. "I'm really sorry, sir, but we only have a few twin rooms and they are all booked. We would be happy to offer you a discount for the inconvenience."

Richard started to splutter. "I don't want a discount, I want a twin room! This is outrageous." A rant was clearly imminent.

Camille stepped in quickly. "If they don't have a twin room, then we can't have one, _darling._" And then to the receptionist "It's all right, we'll be fine with the double. It's just that my husband is a very restless sleeper and tends to thrash about at night, so we do prefer separate beds. But we'll manage, _won't we, darling_?" She kicked him sharply on the ankle.

"Ow. Er … yes … I suppose so."

"Come on then."

Back in the room she rounded on him. "Richard, the last thing we need is to draw attention to ourselves by making a scene! How do you think it will look – a husband and wife refusing to share a bed!"

"Yes, well, er, sorry but what are we going to do?"

"It's a big enough bed. We can share it. I promise I won't jump on you."

In the course of their acquaintance he had often been surprised by Camille, but this casual suggestion left him truly shocked. He stared at her open-mouthed, disbelief etched on his face, as if she had just proposed a round of strip poker. He struggled for words suitable to express the incredulity that he felt.

"But … we can't possibly do that. It's … it's immoral and unethical and … and just totally _totally _inappropriate."

She shrugged. "Why make such a big deal of it? Do I look as if I'm consumed with lust? Oh OK, have it your own way, then. You can take the armchair or the floor – it's your choice."

"I'll sleep in the chair, thank you. Now, shall we go down for some dinner?"

They chose a table with a good view of the whole dining room and took stock of their fellow guests. Most appeared to be on a package holiday from the UK, but there were a number of Americans and Australians, and what appeared to be a contingent from Brazil. Tucked away in the corner sat the three Chinese, the only obvious guests from the Far East. Richard studied them intently. They were conservatively and rather formally dressed, and certainly did not give the impression of being normal tourists. What, then, were they doing on the island?

The trio got up to leave while Richard and Camille were still awaiting their dessert. As the men left the dining room, Camille suddenly got to her feet.

"What is it?" asked Richard.

"I'll only be a minute, I've left something in the room."

She hurried out. Richard sat contemplating this rather odd behaviour. What could she have left behind that she could possibly need for dinner? After about five minutes, she returned, rather breathless.

"They are in rooms 405, 406 and 407" she announced triumphantly.

"How did you find that out?"

"I followed them into the lift and saw where they got out. Now all we have to do is find a way to get into their rooms."

"Yes, well, good work, Camille."

She smiled pertly at him. "I think I deserve a large ice cream, don't you? A _very_ large ice cream, with bits of fruit and nuts and cherries and chocolate sauce? In fact, probably the most expensive ice cream on the menu?"

He sighed and beckoned to the waiter.

* * *

"God, I'm so tired I could almost sleep standing up." Camille kicked off her shoes and flopped onto the bed. "Let's have an early night. You can use the bathroom first."

Richard showered quickly and changed into his pajamas. While he was trying to organise his bedding Camille took her turn in the bathroom, amused to notice all his toiletries lined up in an impeccably straight and tidy row on the shelf. She changed into the nightdress she had bought in Guadeloupe, grimacing at her reflection in the mirror and making a mental note to give the offending garment to the nearest charity shop when she got home.

When she emerged Richard had arranged himself in his chair with a pillow and blanket. He looked up.

"Good God!" He was staring at her round-eyed.

"What is the matter?"

"Nothing, I was just … er … admiring your nightdress."

"So I should hope. I bought it specially for you."

"For me?" His voice squeaked with the rising panic. She surely couldn't mean …

"Yes. As I told you, I usually sleep naked. But I thought that might freak you out, so I bought the dullest, most unexciting garment that it has ever been my misfortune to wear. I hope it's sufficiently respectable for you?"

He came out in beads of sweat. If she considered that the creation she was wearing was unexciting, then he really didn't want to contemplate the alternative. The material clung to her, revealing her shape much more clearly than he was comfortable with. He gulped and nodded wordlessly.

She climbed into the bed and switched off the light.

"Sure you don't want to share? OK, well, sleep well then!"

The trouble was, Richard couldn't sleep at all. At home in the shack he had no difficulty in dropping off when he was relaxing in his favourite wicker chair, but this was an arm chair with a straight back and no matter how he tried he just could not get comfortable. Conscious that the chair emitted a large creak every time he wriggled or shifted his weight, he tried to remain as still as possible so as not to disturb Camille. But his back ached and after a while his leg went numb. He moved cautiously. Creak. He moved again. Creak. He heard Camille utter an irritated sigh.

After a couple of sleepless hours he decided to try the floor, lowering himself as quietly as he could manage. He curled up on his side, only to find the floor tiles digging uncomfortably into his hip. He turned over and tried lying on his back. Camille's voice cut through the darkness.

"For God's sake, Richard, this is ridiculous. It's nearly 2 and neither of us has had a wink of sleep. Stop being such an idiot and come and share the bed." There was no answer, so she added sharply "Now!"

He had to admit, it was a tempting proposition. But …

"Camille, it's just not right. You know, what would people say?"

"You mean you're intending to tell the boys? Or my mother, perhaps? No, I thought not. Well neither am I, so how would anyone ever find out? As far as I'm concerned, what happens in Santiago stays in Santiago! And when it comes to a fistfight between your noble principles and my need for sleep, I can tell you there is only going to be one winner! So come on, get in."

He got up and padded silently over to the bed. He couldn't believe that he was actually going to do this. She waited in the darkness. The mattress springs creaked slightly under the additional weight. He lay very still on the edge of the bed, as far from her as he possibly could.

"Finally! If only you'd brought your sword. Isn't that what they used to do in the olden days – a sword down the middle of the bed? Well, at any rate I hope you don't snore!"

"Of course I don't!"

"How would you know? Does the lizard give you a report in the morning?"

"Goodnight, Camille." It was said with a firmness which belied the shaky state of his nerves.

Soon he could hear from Camille's deep and regular breathing that she was asleep. Even at the far edge of the bed he could feel a slight warmth emanating from her body. The experience was disorientating. He reflected on the many, many years it had been since he last shared a bed with a woman. No, better not to revive those particular memories, on second thoughts – they were not particularly happy ones.

Despite being considerably more comfortable, Richard was still unable to sleep. A shaft of moonlight pierced the curtain and fell across Camille's face. He studied it carefully. It was if anything even more beautiful in repose than when animated. He was conscious that of late he had spent rather too much time staring at that face. It had to stop of course before someone noticed. Particularly if that someone was Camille. He came to a decision. As from tomorrow he would concentrate only on the task in hand and keep his eyes to himself.

Buoyed up by resolve, he turned his back on her. The next thing he knew, she was shaking him awake and ordering him to get up for breakfast.


End file.
